Compare coffee table to love affair: hard, awkwardly-shaped, pointless

An early morning walk back to my Brooklyn and as I pass by bodegas, unopened restaurants and cafes, I think about love.

How many times have I been written on by lovers in bars where pool tables act as backdrops to flirtations like:
“They’ve run out out of chairs, want to sit on my face?” (QJH)

Or scent of western saltwater separating our thighs and I write:
“Real love like Mary J. sung about.”

I am thinking about pace, pause, stop signs, traffic jams and foreplay. I am thinking about how often I have given it up and what it means now to hold back.

What is an alternative to love nowadays?
Screaming a song at the top of my lungs
Dance party sans pants sans strangers humping legs and hipbones
An uninterrupted indulgence of spooned peanut butter into mouth
Woody Allen films
A nap on park bench with the soundtrack of dogs barking and bike wheels churning
Thrift store shopping
Dread locking
Poeming
Masturbating

Maybe I am longing for the grey

with just a hint of howled love
vulgar love
vulgar enough to replace bathing/ food binges/ and habits like hair removal and loneliness
condemned love
decoupage’d love
award winning I want to thank god for you love

I am in search of the [ ] who can influence my shadow to glow in the dark.

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